Page 66 of Bloom

I swallow down the bile rising in my throat that has very little to do with a belly full of alcohol. I grasp at my half-empty glass for another swig to wash away the ache only for it to be wrenched away from me.

“What the hell?” My vision spins as I drag my gaze upwards, barely capable of making out Tommy peering down at my slumped form, wearing a pinched expression that makes mystomach churn even more. I hurriedly drop my gaze; if I can’t see the pity, it doesn’t exist, right?

“I think I should cut you off, Line,” Tommy says quietly, and my face scrunches at his tone.

“I think you should do your job,” I quip because apparently, alcohol makes me quippy. And snarky. And tired.

I'm so tired.

Steeling myself against the haze clouding my senses, I force my spine straight, my fingers curling around the edge of the bar to keep myself from tumbling to the floor. I attempt to scan the myriad of bottles staged on the shelves behind Tommy, but even through squinted eyes, I can’t make out a damn thing. “What else can I try?”

“We have a wonderful selection of water.”

I snort as I steal back my empty glass, rattling the ice cubes inside it. “What about tequila?”

“You won't like tequila.”

“Why not?”

“Because no one likes tequila,” Tommy jokes dryly. “You drink tequila to get wasted, not because you like the taste.”

“Sounds perfect to me.”

And there comes that frown again. “Caroline, are you okay?”

I don’t answer; I don’thavean answer.

“You don’t get wasted.”

“Well, tonight I do.” I lift my chin indignantly. “Either you give me a drink, or I'll find somewhere that will.”

I thought that might snap him into action, and I’m proven right. With a resigned sigh, he reaches for my glass with one hand, the other stretching out towards me, palm-up. “Keys.”

As I oblige, I wonder how often he’s had this same interaction with my dad. I wonder if he’s wondering the same thing, comparing me to him again, thinking about how the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Tommy stashes my keys somewhere beneath the counter, fingers tip-tapping against the wood as he glances worriedly over his shoulder. “Do you want me to call someone?”

Absolutely not.

At the shake of my head, he does it again, looks behind him at something I can’t see—something I probably couldn’t see, even if I tried. “I can get—”

“Tommy, please,” I sigh, groan,beg; quiet and defeated and drunk. “I just wanna sit here for a little while, okay? I’ll be quiet. I won’t be a problem. I promise.”

Again, I think about my dad. Wonder if he promises to be good too in the hopes of another drink. Wonder if he feels this bone-deep need for something strong to wash the pain away. Wonder if Tommy folds to him as easily as he does to me.

Wonder if I’m not the only one who needs to learn to say no.

Tommy was right; I despise tequila.

That doesn't stop me from drinking it, though. I knock back a shot the way he shows me, with salt and lime, and then he fixes me a margarita that I think I like, but my palette can’t exactly be trusted. He leaves me alone after that, and I can’t tell if it’s because he thinks the distance will stop me from ordering another, or if it’s down to me being less than desirable company—what with all the hiccuping and sniffling and general drunkenness.

Maybe I'm embarrassing him, I snicker to myself as I throw back the last of my drink, shivering as it burns a path all the way down to my stomach.

I'm still gagging from the taste when I feel someone come up behind me, their presence registering a split second beforea husky voice sends another shiver up my spine. “I thought I brought you home.”

I need to stop thinking about him. It seems that every time, every single damn time, thoughts of Hunter pop into my head, I conjure up a physical appearance.

A physical appearance that, despite the enormity of it, I ignore. I pretend he isn’t there, favoring rising up on wobbly legs, leaning over the counter, and snagging the bottle of Patrón Tommy foolishly—or maybe purposely—left within arm’s reach. I keep pretending as I pour what’s probably way more than a shot.

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